we leave not our sins behind
by drcalvin
Summary: Inspector Javert tries to find fulfillment only in his work, but sometimes, even he gives in to the desires of his body. Unfortunately, most of these encounters tend to end badly - which is probably why he ends up tumbling most of the Patron-Minette gang into bed (or alley). One way or another, he is certain this is Jean Valjean's fault. (Javert/Multiple, plus pining for Madeleine)


Originally written for the _makinghugospin_ kinkmeme.

The prompt was: Javert has sworn off dating because EVERYBODY he's attracted to turns out to be a criminal in disguise. After he accidentally dated all of Patron-Minette in succession, he gave up on romance entirely. (This is probably all Madeleine's fault somehow.)  
The reason the criminal element walks on tiptoes around him isn't his fearsome policing reputation, it's that they're all his exes.

* * *

Javert wished he had simply arrested the boy for soliciting instead of bringing him home. But with those spindly arms and squeaky voice, the child seemed so young, he doubted it would be legal for anyone to accept his invitations. He held some vague idea of pulling one brat back from the brink at least. So: a grip on the boy's ear and some very stern words, and it was made perfectly clear that Javert was not a potential customer.

Then he'd dragged the protesting boy back to his parents, not at all surprised to find that the child hauled from one of the areas just bordering on the slums. Considering what he'd been trying to do and the bony little elbows, it was obvious he came from the poorest circumstances and many new arrivals to Paris ended up here on their path through the abysses of the city.

Banging on an unpainted door, he almost let the little urchin slip through his grip when he saw who opened.

"Thénardier!" he exclaimed. Recognizing him the other man hissed and stepped backwards, until he was safely half-hidden by the shadows of the door again.

"Well, well," the odious man sneered, drawing up a bit of false courage. "If it isn't Monsieur the Inspector! Did you start to miss our company after all? My wife's spirit is hard to compare to, eh?"

Rather then speaking, Javert pushed the boy forward, noting with disgust that it stumbled on a dead rat.

"Eponine! Why are you with that man!"

"Eponine?" Javert looked down at the child in his grip; squinting in annoyance, he tore the cap of its head, and a mop of dirty curls fell out. "Damn it."

Madame Thénardier emerged from the gloom of the house, gasping in affectation when she recognized her daughter. "What are you doing with my daughter, you deviant!" she cried, rushing forward and falling to her knees, fussing over the girl.

"Stop it, mama!" the girl said, squirming uncomfortably. "I was so hungry..."

Javert grimaced and gave Thénardier a dark look. "You should make less of an effort to impress your 'guests', and more to feed your child, Thénardier."

Not very coved, the former innkeeper let his eyes linger most uncouthly on Javert. "First of all, it's Jondrette now. And Jondrette it will remain. Or I shall be certain to recall the face and name of a man who came to my inn to drown his sorrows over an escaped convict and somehow stumbled into my bed – ah, pardon," he said, sharing a wicked grin with his wife, "our bed."

Javert fought down an ugly flush. After he had lost Valjean in Paris, the thought of returning to Montreuil-sur-Mer and all the questions that awaited him had seen nigh untenable. Justifying it to himself as an attempt to secure leads for Valjean's recapture, he had made another stop at _The Sergeant of Waterloo_. There, one thing (and several bottles of disgusting wine) had led to another... Unfortunately, the other thing was waking up in a ratty bed with a ferocious hangover and the master and mistress of the house on each arm.

He had not lingered the next day, leads and evidence be damned.

"There is a limit to what I am willing to stand for, Thénardier," Javert growled. "You might have personal reasons to abandon your name – fine; I know you owe no dues to the state, nor to any creditor who has made an official complaint. Thus it is none of my business. However... if you think I would let even such an embarrassment keep me from reporting a crime committed, you offer me a grave insult. And trust me, the consequences of that will be dire, and wholly on your own head."

Thénardier might have attempted to simper something, but Javert drew his cane and tapped him none-too-gently on the shoulder. "One slipped word, one step outside of the law," he said, "and I shall have both of you thrown into prison at once!"

Though the Madame blustered from behind her husband, Thénardier only nodded and bowed repeatedly, recognizing the truth of Javert's resolution.

Giving the couple one final admonishment to keep their girl at home – and feed the brat, for crying out loud! – Javert left them, hoping he would never have to gaze upon this particular mistake again. Never again, he swore, never again would he fall into temptation in that way.

For almost two years, he had his wish and managed to kept his silent promise. Paris was large enough that it would have needed a police force ten times the size of what was available to dam up the waves of crime. Javert was kept busy; he was needed and thus, he was content.

Then came the year of 1830. While the unrest shook the very foundations of the state, Javert had no time to think or reflect. He did his duty, tried to keep order among the rabble and even received a commendation for his cool head.

But after? When he saw how the state had changed its colours but not its shape, a world turned inside out that kept rolling along as if nothing had happened? Too many thoughts crowded his mind. When he found himself sitting at his desk, having stared at a report for half an hour (a superior turned criminal, though no doing of his own; a twist of the state order making lawful man illegal) and realizing he could not finish it, he'd had enough.

The Law was his passion, his truth, the one thing that kept him from the rabble of the streets. In the Law and in nothing beyond the Law could Javert find his virtue.

What little virtues that remained to his body, then, were surely nothing to act frugal about. Not when his soul was trembling in its foundations.

An inn he'd heard sniggers and rumours about... Wine, sour but strong; a hand on his shoulders, a voice from the darkness, and soon Javert found distraction in one of the small back rooms.

It was only afterwards, when he lay half-dozing, pleasant aches distracting from the tumult in his soul, that things turned foul. His bedfellow sat up and went to avail himself of a bottle of wine he'd brought; nothing suspicious. However, he then took up Javert's coat and began rifling through the pockets, with silent and furtive speed.

Javert feigned sleep, inwardly cursing his own stupidity. He had fallen victim to the loose gossip he had heard, which stated that men of this inclination would hold together to protect their deviances. Obviously a falsehood.

Still, despairing or not, it would not be said that Inspector Javert was careless. He'd not undressed completely for their sport, and had brought a concealed dagger, knowing that his nightstick could mark him as a policeman. Now, he readied the blade, and waited upon the moment when he would be able to fling himself upon the criminal and prove himself the master in this more familiar game. Perhaps, he thought with dark satisfaction, this resolution would not be so bad after all – though Lord knew how he'd explain the circumstances once he'd done the arrest.

When the man drew out Javert's wallet and identification, he readied himself. He'd let his prey be distracted by searching for money, and then – But the contents seemed to surprise the thief, more than was warranted by the lack of bills, and Javert stayed his hand a moment.

The thief took a step through the cramped room and hurriedly uncovered a candle burning in an alcove to look closer at the paper.

This was the first good look Javert got at his face; thin, bony, with a small moustache and deep hollows beneath his eyes. An untrustworthy face steeped in sin – Javert would come to greet it with little surprise and weary disgust, when he was confronted with Claquesous, suspected member of the Patron-Minette robber gang. Still, all that lay a year into the future.

Tonight, he only focused on the features revealed by the light and had the pleasure of seeing the man blanch as he read Javert's title. When the thief proved his sense by abandoning hat and coat, only grabbing his pack to make a quick escape, he was sore disappointed. Though he sat up and cried out as soon as the man made to escape, he was gone before Javert could grab him.

Struggling into his trousers, he followed as soon as he could, but there was no trace of the thief.

No, the innkeeper said with studied ignorance, he did not know this man. Like every guest in this inn, he too was a nameless stranger.

Distraction it had been, but not of the sort Javert most craved. He remained troubled for several days after the occurrence. His next encounter did nothing to easy his worries.

It had been a few days after his attempt at the inn. He had managed to finish the damned report the day after, but his nights remained restless. Knowing that the lack of sleep would become dangerous in the long run, Javert had opted to take a longer road home. He held some vague hope that the night air would clear his mind – or that he might stumble over a nice, simple housebreaking to deal with.

When a young man attempted to grab him and he felt something – a blade? – scrape against his neck-guard, Javert grinned with ferocious joy. His assailant had not been prepared for resistance. He squawked and flailed when Javert slid his hidden cane back, thrusting it out from beneath his coat-tails to catch the would-be thief in a sensitive area. The cut-throat's grip grew lax, and Javert whirled around, pressing him against the nearest wall, his cane smacking down on the man's right hand.

"Urgh," groaned the man, his tall hat tumbling off his shoulders, revealing an unlined face with some traces of elegance. "I – Thi –"

"No more words, you miscreant," Javert said, feeling the exhilaration of danger thrum through him. A shame, almost, that it had been over so quickly. "You tried to go after the wrong man tonight; I am Police Inspector Javert, and I place you under arrest for assault and robbery."

"Insp–!" Eyes flying wide open, the young man blushed even deeper and some strong emotion seemed to course through him. His eyelids fluttered, and Javert was surprised when what must surely be an attempt at a flirtatious smile grew trembling on his lips. "You must forgive me," he simpered, "didn't think you'd take it so badly. I should've known a man of your stature must be with the–"

Javert choked off his prattle. "What are you trying at, you fool?"

With a pained gesture, the would-be thief indicated that he needed air to speak. Javert allowed him a small amount, his curiosity tickled, though he tightened his grip again when the man tried to wriggle his arms loose.

"I've watched you," the young dandy said, "Monsieur, I've come to..." His features twitched again, making Javert wonder if he had some odd thick, and then the wretch's tone dropped deep. "I saw you at the Ganymede!"

A chill went down Javert's back. He had been seen? In that place?

"I never would have expected you there, Monsieur, but recognized your form immediately and was delighted... But you left with that man before I had a chance to speak up." The wicked smirk upon his lips, the thrust of hips, the coy way he fluttered his eyes; all that he displayed to Javert made it clear in what way this pretty boy would wish to 'speak' to him.

Dumbfounded, Javert almost let his grip relax. He had arrested men for years. Had been threatened, bribed and, yes, on occasion solicited by a streetwalker, though most of the fallen women had more sense than to attempt that. But never had someone tried to cut his throat on moment, only to flatter him in the next!

"So, you tried to kill me?" he stated, ignoring the confusing signals from the man.

"No, no!" He wriggled his hand, drawing attention to what Javert had taken for a blade. "It was a gift! I stumbled; my nerves betrayed me!"

He squinted at it; though the light was bad, he saw a gleam of silver. It revealed itself a small decorated square when the young man opened his hand, and Javert realized belatedly that what he had taken for a switch-blade was a snuffbox. But he had seen...? He shook his head. Lack of sleep, stress; that had been the downfall of better men than Javert. He could have sworn he'd seen a blade, had felt the tell-tale scrape against his neck-guard – and yet now, it was clearly only a little trinket. A clever sleight-of-hand or a mistake from his side? He wished he could trust himself enough to make a fair judgement.

Warily, he relaxed his grip on the man – What is your name? Montparnasse, Monsieur! – though he would not accept the snuff box when it was pushed towards his hand.

"I do not trust you," Javert said, worrying his cane in his hand. "Your story; no, it does not match up." He looked to the fine clothes, the colourful neck-cloth and the embroidered waistcoat and shook his head; what would such a dandy want with the likes of an old inspector? Better go with his first instincts, which had not let him down yet. "We shall see if you are known at the station."

"Monsieur!" Montparnasse dared attempt a caress, stopped by Javert's glare. "Let me _prove_ my sincerity," he purred, pressed his leg most indecently against Javert.

"If you think this will help you hide a crime, you are sore mistaken!" he growled, attempting not to let on how affected the entire situation had left him; the rush of danger, the glee of capture, and now this too-pretty man who was flaunting himself, whose hand was sliding down between them – a luck for them both the street was completely deserted. Javert had seen none other during most of his walk, but this was still far more public than he was comfortable with.

"No, Inspector." With a wicked smirk, Montparnasse found his hardness, and Javert felt his resolve waver in a most worrying way. "I'll be happy to follow you anywhere," the husky voice promised, "but I have... waited... and dreamt, for so long. Can I not take this with me first?"

Any other week, Javert would have ignored him. Any time but this, when the Law had turned on itself and society shook and trembled; he would have remained a better man. Now, as if infected by the madness around them, he took possession of those naughty hands and availed himself of the youngster's flesh. Found himself silencing a squeak with his own lips, tasting that pretty, taunting fool.

It was quickly over; the youth was trembling enough that Javert for a moment almost believed that he had been following him for some time, secretly lusting. Though his hands were clumsy and fumbling on Javert's arousal, they were firm and warm. Montparnasse kept up a steady litany of curses, pleading to God and the devil alike, while they worked on each other, and when Javert spilled in his lithe hands, the little fool bucked so violently that he lost the grip on him. Still, it seemed to have been enough for him, because he curled upon himself with a choked noise and waved off Javert's attempts to assist him.

He should bring this little dandy in to the precinct, Javert thought, but their tangle had left him tired. And nobody would be grateful if he arrived with more work at this hour. To some protest, he took Montparnasse's wallet and looked inside. The bill from a tailor with his name on it strengthened his claim, and so Javert gave himself satisfied with a home address, and let him go.

He found himself walking homewards with lighter steps. A foolish infatuation should not put him in such good a mood, he knew, but what was wrong with a bit of sport? He felt refreshed, despite the late hour, and would not mind to give this Montparnasse a taste of his full talents at a later date. Surely it would not last – a young man, with some coin to his pocket, would soon find other interests – but he could teach the boy a thing or two, and take his own pleasure meanwhile. It would be relaxing.

When he the next morning gave the name and description at the precinct, he was informed that it matched perfectly a known cut-throat, who was suspected to have several young women on his conscience. The snuffbox – he had stepped upon it after Montparnasse left, and kept it with the intention to return it soon – was identified as hailing from a recent robbery.

He was too angry at his own foolishness to reflect more closely upon the dismay he felt, or the dark twist this gave the memory of Montparnasse's face, which had looked so stricken in its passion.

This sin, this weakness... It had only led him wrong from the beginning! That he could never learn!

When Javert was fourteen, he lost what little was left of his innocence to a young man from the docks. His friend had large hands and strong shoulders, though his intelligence was not much to brag about. At the time, they were both poor but honest. Javert was earning his money as a message boy between the ships, offices and guardsmen of the town while Babet hauled goods when an extra hand was needed.

In the years to come, Javert would drift away from the waterfront, begin to earn his keep directly serving the law. In time, he too would wear a uniform; the play with other boys, he left behind, and the play with girls he never cared to discover.

At seventeen, his old acquaintance had wrecked his knee and could no longer haul great weights. But fortune led him right, and he'd stumbled into apprenticeship to a barber, who doubled as a maker of wigs and dentures. As he grew older, he found himself eager for the company of men and women alike. Babet finally settled with a wife when her belly grew round, only to lose both wife and child through his own thoughtless actions. He cared not overly much for this loss, not even then.

If Javert ever recognized him when they met in Paris, he gave no indication. And if the thief Babet could still see a gangly boy with a rare smile in the stern official who threatened him with arrest? Then he kept it close and silent; or he'd lost that memory too, as he'd frittered away so many other things in life.

As for Javert, though his desires plagued him in his younger years, he need only look at the convicts and their mockery of love to quell them again. His fellows in service – soldiers, men of the navy, prison guards and jailers – were not for him, he knew. Inappropriate, unfitting and besides, they all gossiped like old hens. He had his duty and it was enough.

When he entered the police, his feelings on the matter only grew clearer. A policeman was more than a guard. He upheld the Law among the populace; his was the sacred duty to separate the wheat from the chaff. Perhaps not the most popular of duties, but to Javert, his police identification was a proof of the highest esteem from those men who ruled, who were the very pillars of the world. To them, he wished never to give cause for disappointment.

Thus he made himself unimpeachable. He had always been careful with his wine; now, he refused to take more than a single glass in the course of a meal. He knew his letters and his numbers, he had read passages from the Bible and his hand was slow but clear. Too slow; too much effort to read each word. He found it insufficient and hated this lack in himself. He heard his superiors discuss the daily news sheets, took notice of the frowns on their faces when his overtime piled up over reports and he knew he must improve himself or be found faulty.

So he wrote: reports, struggling to make them clear and concise; lists of criminals and their habits, to improve both his memory and his penmanship. In his spare time, he read. Many evenings he would forced himself through improving books, reading endless treatises on law and supposedly uplifting novels about Grace and Goodness. It was tiring and often dull. Sometimes he would wake in his armchair, the book fallen to the floor and his eyes having closed without his consent.

He did eventually manage to finish his reports faster, and found time to scan the news sheet whenever he took his midday meal at the precinct. He had improved himself.

And, of course, there were the men. No more would Javert let his eyes linger on strong backs and taut muscles. The men in the chain gang had been too wretched for even this passive interest, but there had always been some newcomers, or soldiers and sailors passing by... No more. He tried to look up instead, to the men he should take as his ideals. He found it easier to let his body be shamed into obedience by them; his superiors were born far above him, remained far above him, untouchable and inhumanly better. The sight of them stirred nothing in his flesh, and so, he considered himself almost sanctified by their presence.

Then he was stationed away from Paris and the civilizing influence of that great city. There was a mayor, though, a man that deserved all his admiration. In Javert's eyes, the mayor, come from so humble beginnings, having climbed to such heights, was made of a different stuff than common man.

True, he was too kind. He gave to the undeserving, he listened too long to the foolish, and his brow seemed ever creased with all the worries of the unworthy masses. But in every man, we see but a mirror of our selves and so Javert assumed that Monsieur Madeleine saw the good of himself reflected from every dirty face.

To be in his presence, and hear him speak – even when he was frightfully wrong and far too soppy – illuminated Javert's days. Though they spoke only of duty and saw each other mostly at the factory or at Mass, Javert felt assured that his devotion to the Mayor would help cleanse the taint of his past from him, just as his observations of the highest powers of the police once had.

It was a good time. His sleep was sound and his work felt easy. Even the blasted books were slightly more tolerable, once he learned that the Mayor struggled with his reading as well. If he, sometimes, imagined a gentler hand than his own upon his flesh... if the stunning show on strength he had seen the Mayor display once caused strange phantoms; vague fancies of naked backs and elegant clothes ripped apart to leave only a worn-out red frock... It was his baser nature, nothing more. It reared its head, it tormented him, but only in the dark beneath the covers. In daylight, he was safe. On the streets, Javert was certain of the world.

And then there was a confrontation over a filthy woman – on the streets, perhaps, but in the night. Near the old wharf where sin nested and grew, in the darkness where the mayor should not go. Javert was angered, filled with confusion, and that very night he penned a letter.

The letter sent, he allowed himself to dream of other things: Of a man in chains, debased and captured. Yet, somehow, still so fine to look at, smooth-shaven with a scent of soap clinging to his ear, even as his cravat tore and he put bruised lips around Javert's arousal.

Weeks passed; he avoided the Mayor in the daytime now, spent his nights with an imagined libertine bearing his face instead... A man filthy and willing to do any bidding; a man no higher than Javert, yet remaining infuriatingly irresistible.

Then came the answer – then came the disaster. His dreams were shattered, his life seemed in ruins, and the true nightmare was that the long fall of his debasement had only just begun.

Could he truly be blamed, then, after all these misfortunes, for slipping in Montfermeil?

These were the questions that plagued Javert when he stared down the cunning smirk of Thénardier; when he staunchly ignored the wife slipping her dress down; when he would not meet the eyes of either Monparnasse or Babet or the man he was almost certain was Claquesous...

If he'd possessed proof of their crimes, Javert would have acted without hesitance. If he'd possessed even one shred of proof, beyond his own memory of their faces – one witness, one single honest man standing by him! – they could have put the entire gang away. Then, Javert would have laughed off all their slander and lies. But without anything tangible to arrest them for, and all the criminals stating the same shameful thing?

Javert was silent, his face a mask of stone, and rage and disappointment swirling within. Finally, he glanced away, marked their features one last time, and spoke. "Everyone about your business, clear this garbage off the street!"

A gesture to his men, a sour taste in his mouth... Again, they walked free, and Javert's shame would be hidden for a little while longer. If only it had it been anyone but _him_, if only he could be free of the phantom of that convict, that falsely smiling mayor...

Tonight, Javert knew, his dreams would be full of his presence again: his torment and his ecstasy, this man who'd dragged him down this cursed path where any man he dared touch was ultimately revealed as a scoundrel.

One night, he would find him, would properly know Jean Valjean at last; that night, he would throw off these shameful lusts and once more emerge perfect and pure.

* * *

Wellp, that's the end. Feedback always welcome!


End file.
